


[vore] Berry Spaghetti

by wolfbunny



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Does Blueberry survive? You decide, Gen, Macro/Micro, Vore, ambiguous vore, unaware vore, unwilling vore, warning: spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfbunny/pseuds/wolfbunny
Summary: Blueberry accidentally gets shrunk and goes on an epic journey across the kitchen counter. Did you read the warnings? Read the warnings.





	[vore] Berry Spaghetti

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on tumblr asked for this :3  
> A couple of different firsts for me. (Well--that Gaster brownie mix thing barely counts.)
> 
> This kitchen is based more on my own idea of a kitchen than any version of the canon skelebro kitchen.
> 
> Blueberry is quite the optimist.

He shouldn’t have eaten one of his brother’s “experimental” cookies. That much was obvious. But when Papy had warned him, the other Papyrus had pointed out that his spaghetti was experimental too—of course it was; he was constantly experimenting. So naturally Blueberry had assumed that the cookies too were just a new recipe, or an invented recipe, and Papy wasn’t sure of the flavor—really, Papy didn’t cook often, so anything he made was likely to be a foray into the culinary unknown. It had never occurred to him that they were some kind of _science_ experiment.  
  
It was really careless to leave potentially dangerous things like that lying around! Especially in the kitchen, where you might expect to find _normal_ cookies! Blueberry was definitely going to have a word with his brother about this. He was just lucky the experiment had been a success—assuming that the cookies were designed to shrink monsters, and it wasn’t some horrifying unforeseen side effect. Also assuming the effect would wear off in a reasonable time. Blueberry gulped nervously at the thought.  
  
But he couldn’t give into pessimism. He was the Magnificent Sans! He wasn’t going to lose his head in a crisis—and this wasn’t even really a crisis, so much as a wacky mishap! It would definitely be hilarious in retrospect. He hoped.  
  
“PAPY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?” he shouted. He wasn’t sure his voice would carry all the way into the living room now that he was shorter than a thimble. “COME INTO THE KITCHEN!”  
  
He waited, but nobody came. He could only hear indistinct scraps of conversation over the sound of the TV, so it made sense that if he could barely hear their normal-sized voices they wouldn’t be able to hear his tiny one.  
  
At least he had ended up on the counter—the shrinking effect had been immediate and he’d been leaning against it to grab a cookie. He didn’t have to worry about being stepped on when someone eventually came in. But where would be the best place to attract their attention? Embarrassing as it might be, it was definitely safer that the other skeletons know about his predicament so that he wouldn’t be accidentally crushed or lost. And he really wanted to scold Papy for getting him into this mess, if his brother would cooperate by leaning his skull close to the counter. It was at least 95% his brother’s fault, after all.  
  
He looked around at his surroundings. Everything towered over him; even the combined height of the cookies and the cooling rack was too high to see over. The sink was a vast smooth chasm, and the pots and pans sitting on the other side were so distant he could actually see them all at once, which almost let him forget they were huge compared to him now. That was the other Papyrus’s spaghetti, he remembered—he’d gone to join the others for a few minutes while the noodles boiled. A colander was sitting ready to strain them when they were done. The other pan had contained the sauce, and it must be done since it was sitting on the counter and not the stove. He would be back soon to check on the noodles, certainly.  
  
Blueberry remembered sampling Papyrus’s spaghetti in the past. At times it was al-dente to the extreme, and other times mushy and overcooked beyond any of Blueberry’s own worst culinary disasters. But Papyrus would have to come finish up the spaghetti eventually, even if he got distracted or overestimated the cooking time. So the best bet for being noticed was to be in his line of vision when he came for it.  
  
But how to get over there? Blueberry studied the landscape. There was a narrow strip of horizontal surface on either side of the sink, but it seemed risky. He didn’t want to fall into the sink; the surface was smooth and slippery and sloped slightly toward the drain, and he didn’t even want to think of what might happen to him if he fell down the drain. The path was wider on the front of the sink, but bordered by a sheer drop to the floor on the other side. He could easily picture such a long fall onto hard tile being enough to dust him. What’s more, there was a sponge blocking the way on the corner of the sink, which he’d have to climb over. It was probably doable, but the sponge was balanced precariously on the edge of the sink, and it might be light enough that his minute weight would shift it, and it would take him with it wherever it fell.  
  
His eye lights landed on the edge of the curtain that decorated the window behind the sink. It was long enough to graze the counter top, blue with a cute bone-themed pattern. If he could climb up there, he could walk across the windowsill and avoid the sink entirely. There were a few knickknacks that he’d left on the windowsill to make the kitchen more cheery, but although he couldn’t see from this angle, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t block the way. All things considered it seemed like the safest route.  
  
The climb up the curtain was difficult. Blueberry did a lot of training, but there wasn’t much opportunity to climb vertical surfaces in Snowdin. He could get a handhold anywhere on the cloth, but it also swung and bent so that he was hanging upside down from it almost like a sloth at times. He had given up his boots to be able to get any kind of grip with his feet. It had been grueling, but he’d eventually made it to the windowsill.  
  
He rested a while, looking out at the kitchen from his slightly higher vantage point. It looked about the same as from the counter, but he had been concentrating on his next step when he’d looked around earlier, and focused on places he could actually get to from here. Now he paused to take in the view. The distant kitchen table looked so mundane and yet so strange.  
  
He turned his attention to the windowsill. The way was blocked by a snow globe, but there was plenty of space to walk around it; the problem was that he couldn’t see all the way to the other side past this and the other obstacles.  
  
Well, there was no point in putting it off. Nobody might ever find him up here on the windowsill, and it would be awkward if he suddenly returned to normal size. He would have to ask Papy how long it would last—he’d thought he’d feel safer inside a shoe box or something, but now he realized that once he had the help of the rest of the skeletons, he would have to balance safety while tiny with not risking going back to normal inside a small space.  
  
At least walking was a lot easier than climbing, even though it was highly unusual not to have his boots. It was a long walk, though. He wondered, as he measured his progress by the angle from which he could see the sink, if the windowsill was a mile across in relative scale. The sill was dusty; after he got back to normal, he would be sure to clean here more often.  
  
He was nearly to the other side when he faced a dilemma. If only the curtain weren’t gathered into a tie on this side, he could have just climbed down here. But now he specifically remembered tying it up in order to better display the ceramic flower he’d found at the dump. (A real flower might have been nice, but he felt their pet rock was enough responsibility for now.) The flower pot had a sort of plate at the bottom—on a real flower, it might have caught water that drained out from the pot. But it was wide enough to block the entire windowsill.  
  
There was a gap between the raised rim of the plate and the windowsill, but it was too small for Blueberry to squeeze through. He would just have to walk across the edge of the plate. The side toward the window was obviously safer, so he headed that way, walking along the curved edge until it ran up against the window frame, which would give him something else to brace himself against as he climbed up.  
  
But as soon as he gripped the edge of the plate to pull himself up, there was a dreadful skittering, and a big dark hairy something peered down at him from the flowerpot. At first he thought it was an insect, but then he noticed the webbing connecting the pot to the window. It was a spider. Up close he could see its several eyes and its mandibles—it was hairier than he would have expected.  
  
Blueberry jumped, belatedly, somehow more startled by the realization that it was a spider than its initial appearance. After all, most insects probably just ate things smaller than themselves, but spiders—spiders wrapped up their prey and injected them with venom and then—he was definitely small enough for the spider to consider him food. He wasn’t sure it would get any benefit trying to suck out innards that he didn’t have, but it didn’t seem likely to end well for him either way. Inwardly apologizing to Muffet for being so freaked out—this could be her cousin or something, for all he knew—he backed away quickly, putting some distance between himself and the flowerpot so that he could see if the spider was following. Spiders were just creepy. Maybe that was a reason he hadn’t admitted to himself why he didn’t really like Papy spending so much time at Muffet’s.  
  
The spider seemed content to stay where it was, so he steeled himself to attempt crossing the other side of the flowerpot. It was really a little _too_ big for the windowsill, so this side, not blocked by the window frame, stuck out beyond the edge of the wood below. He would have to walk much farther along the rim of the plate than he would have on the window side. That was unfortunate, but he didn’t want to complain when he’d been lucky enough not to be eaten by the spider.  
  
A few steps away from the edge of the windowsill, he hauled himself up onto the edge of the plate, and got to his feet, hugging the side of the flowerpot. He sidled a few steps, watching his leading foot, in case there were any unforeseen obstacles. So far, so good—the glaze on the surface was slippery, but if he was careful, he could do this. He missed his boots; they might have provided a little more traction than bone did. After a couple more steps, he could see the sheer drop to the counter—a survivable fall, probably, he told himself, not like falling on the floor. As he looked from this angle, he saw that the saucepan full of spaghetti sauce had been shoved back against the wall and was directly below him. He didn’t fancy being submerged in tomato sauce, but on the plus side, if he did manage to fall, it would be softer than landing on the counter itself.  
  
Slowly inching along the edge of the plate was agonizing, even worse than climbing the curtain. At least he’d been able to get a proper grip on the curtain. At about halfway across, he stopped to rest for a few seconds, clinging to the side of the pot and closing his eyes. If he thought too much about falling, he was sure he’d shiver too hard and lose his balance.  
  
The best thing for it was to get to the other side and get it over with. He opened his eyes with a renewed sense of determination, and found himself face-to-face with the spider. He jumped with alarm, trying to push himself away from the spider, and he succeeded at that, but only by pushing himself away from the flowerpot, out into empty space. Time seemed to freeze for an instant before gravity took hold of him, but he still had no time to react before something struck him hard in the ribs. His reflexes were finely honed, though, and he grabbed onto it; it was the edge of the saucepan. But the blow to his ribs had knocked the breath out of him and he couldn’t hang on for more than a second. He landed in the sauce with a plop.  
  
Blueberry found to his relief that he didn’t sink into the sauce. When Papyrus came, he would yell, and everything would be fine. Hitting the side of the pan had been unlucky, but otherwise everything had gone fine, considering. In retrospect, it might even have been a good idea to jump off the windowsill into the sauce. Surely Papyrus would see him in here. He refused to think about what might happen if—there was no possibility that Papyrus wouldn’t notice him, so he didn’t need to worry about that.  
  
Just then he heard someone come into the kitchen. There was no mistaking Papyrus’s energetic footsteps—and besides, he was chattering away about his new recipe as he quickly and efficiently drained the noodles.  
  
“A REALLY ADVANCED CHEF USES HIDDEN FLAVORS OR SECRET INGREDIENTS. AND I KNOW YOU LIKE SWEET FLAVORS BECAUSE OF THAT THING YOU DO WITH THE KETCHUP.”  
  
Blueberry hadn’t heard Sans’s quieter footsteps, but he heard his deeper voice replying to his brother’s comments.  
  
“Hey, I just don’t have time to cook when I’m trying to ketchup on my sleep.”  
  
“SANS, STOP THAT.”  
  
Blueberry felt the pan move—Papyrus was picking it up. This was the perfect moment, with his attention on the sauce already. Blueberry opened his mouth to shout, “PAPYRUS!” But barely a whisper came out. He was still suffering from being hit by the edge of the pan, and his voice responded to his demands on it by failing completely. He tried again, careful not to strain his voice too much, and managed to yell, “PAPYRUS! STOP!” but not at any great volume. His plan had hinged on shouting at the top of his lungs, but this would have to be enough.  
  
“ANYWAY, SEE IF YOU CAN TELL WHAT THE SECRET INGREDIENT IS THIS TIME! IT MIGHT TASTE KIND OF—FRUITY.”  
  
“Sounds berry delicious.”  
  
Blueberry kept yelling, desperately, but nobody showed any sign of noticing him.  
  
“I’M NOT GIVING YOU ANY MORE HINTS.” Papyrus scraped a generous amount of sauce onto the waiting noodles.  
  
“NO! PAPY, HELP—” He had no evidence his brother was even in the room, but Blueberry called out to him as his desperation mounted. Then he was buried under an avalanche of tomato sauce. He struggled, but it just made him fall deeper into the tangle of noodles.  
  
“YOU HAVE TO GUESS,” continued Papyrus, his voice sounding muffled now from within the spaghetti.  
  
He couldn’t make out what Sans answered, but he had more immediate problems than straining to hear their conversation when giant metal prongs stabbed into the spaghetti right next to him. Oh stars, if that had been a little closer he would have been skewered. No, he mustn’t panic. He was lucky that it hadn’t even grazed him.  
  
“SANS?” he yelled as loud as he could. “DON’T EAT THE—”  
  
The prongs moved, pressing him against the spaghetti, and then starting to spin.  
  
“SANS, STOP,” he croaked, but it was as if the noodles were tying him tight to the fork. The fork changed its angle, lifting him up—surely now some of the noodles would fall away and they would see him. Or if they didn’t, he’d get his breath back in time to yell and catch their attention.  
  
Maybe it was because Sans had so much practice eating spaghetti, since his brother was constantly making it and wanted his opinion on it. None of the pasta fell off the fork as he’d hoped; its weight kept pressing down on Blueberry, making it hard to breathe. He tried anyway, voice cracking as he forced out their names: “Papyrus … Sans … Papy!”  
  
Suddenly it was darker. The spaghetti on one side pressed against him, and the prongs of the fork slid away. His eyes adjusted and he could see by the dim blue light coming from the floor. The floor moved, toppling him sideways along with all the spaghetti, and he found something solid and uneven below him. It was a row of teeth, he realized, and shoved against it just in the nick of time, as it met its twin from above, grinding the unfortunate noodles that were caught between them into pulp.  
  
He clambered over the spaghetti back onto the blue surface, which he now realized was Sans’s tongue. “SANS, NO!” he tried to yell, but the tongue kept pushing him back toward the teeth, and the sauce, along with some translucent liquid that was welling up from below, were making everything slippery. Soon the defenseless noodles were all pulverized, and Blueberry had only narrowly escaped the same fate.  
  
The teeth stopped, and Blueberry felt relieved for a moment—that was one trial survived. Now he just needed to find a way out—no, his best bet was to get Sans’s attention—he was sure to notice something moving on his tongue. Maybe he could even bite him—  
  
At that moment, the tongue rose up and dumped him deep into the back of the mouth.  
  
***  
  
Papyrus’s new spaghetti recipe was … interesting. Judging by the appearance, Sans had hit the nail on the head with his berry pun; there were whole strawberries and raspberries, boiled but still identifiable, in the sauce. Sans forced himself to swallow the first bite. He almost thought he felt something move in his mouth, but he was pretty sure it was just his imagination encouraging him to reject the unpalatable food. He would never insult Papyrus by spitting out his cooking. And in the worst case scenario there might have been a bug in it. But it was probably nothing, since blueberries didn’t move.

**Author's Note:**

> The spider just wanted to help ;w;  
> If Blueberry lives: He makes enough commotion to get rescued. He has a lingering fear of spiders (Paps has to come chase them away) and no appetite for spaghetti. Later Swap Paps convinces him to try the cookies again. :3  
> If he dies: That's still better than finding out what Swap Papyrus planned on doing with these cookies, probably 'w'


End file.
